


There's a rule

by Flurry_X



Series: Whimper [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst and Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Denial of Feelings, Explicit Sexual Content, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Introspection, M/M, Mild Gore, Past Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-22 01:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17653781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flurry_X/pseuds/Flurry_X
Summary: "He can see the sunburn blooming on Cas’s nose, the messy stubble covering his cheeks, the wet dip right above his lips, his eyes, blue and clear and staring at Dean with a longing that feels like it’s primal and raw and everlasting.And Dean wants to have him, wants to keep this, all of it, but he can’t say it.He doesn’t know how to love him in daylight, doesn’t know how to love him honest."----Sequel to "There's a nail"Where they take the road trip and try to figure it outDean POV





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this is pretty much a 12k Destiel indulgence/character study on Dean Winchester, his sexuality and identity, plus some sex, a bunch of metaphors, and some vampires. Enjoy?  
> It can be read as a standalone but it's technically the sequel to "There's a nail", reading both will make more sense!  
> The story is 90% written, it's around 12k all in all, and it's gonna be split in three chapters. I will be posting the rest of it through the week, with the third chapter hopefully coming sometime next weekend, so if you'd rather read it all in one go you just gotta wait a few more days =)
> 
> Disclaimer: I am currently mid-rewatch, season 9 to be exact, and this is set sometime around season 10, canon details are hazy for me so there's no specific reference to canon, it's mostly feelings and boys being dumb.
> 
> Acknowledgements: I gotta thank [Eyes_of_a_Tragedy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eyes_of_a_Tragedy/pseuds/Eyes_of_a_Tragedy) for being my awesome awesome beta on this. Her suggestions and encouragements made it so much better and I'm forever grateful!  
> And [Angel_Stark_Winchester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angel_Stark_Winchester) for being my first cheerleader. You guys are the best!!! =)  
> Also, I wouldn't have written *any* of this, wouldn't have been thinking about destiel at all, had it not been for [winchester-reload](http://winchester-reload.tumblr.com/) and her amazing, breath-taking art. Thank you for being such an inspiration and a kind presence in this fandom!

There’s a rule in the Winchester family. It’s been there for as long as Dean can remember, scribbled in notebooks, shouted, whispered between clenched teeth, “Winchesters travel light”.  
Dean has heard it often, in the deep gravel of his father's voice, whenever he would try to make space between their weapons to sneak in a book or a cute girl’s memento.  
He has felt those words in his own mouth, directed at Sam, at himself, whenever he felt that spark of longing, that “I wish I could keep this, just this once” feeling.  
It’s a simple rule, it’s a practical one. When you spend your whole life on the move you simply don’t have the luxury of letting yourself get attached, not at the risk of having too much baggage to carry. Because you never know when you’ll have to run, and you can’t afford the risk of looking back at what you’ve left behind.

So Dean is obedient, he’s careful; for years he keeps his bags empty of belongings and full of necessities, only propels himself forwards, and doesn’t even have to remind himself not to look back. He makes himself let go of anything that threatens to latch onto him and if he ever feels a pang of regret at chances never taken, he chases it down with a gulp of scotch and the sting is enough to take his mind off of it.  
He’s got Baby, a handful of dog-eared Vonnegut novels, his music, his gun, his brother. And that’s enough for him for a long time.

And then they get the bunker. Dusty and dark and safe. Theirs.  
And suddenly there’s a room to fill, a bed that smells like him, a dresser with his clothes inside.  
Dean tries to keep abiding by the rule, but it gets harder and harder to ignore that itch in his brain, that little incessant pitter-patter of _want_.  
So he takes his books, his knives, his music, and he spends a whole afternoon spreading them all around the room. They barely take up space on the shelves, and when he’s done all he sees are the negative spaces, the hollows where all the things he was never allowed to have could be. The silence feels like the moment before the other shoe drops and Dean doesn’t know how to make himself relax in it.  
Old habits die hard.

Enough time goes by for his books to start gathering dust, for his mattress to shape around his body. The negative spaces still stare at him whenever he enters the room.  
He watches Sam and Castiel spread little crumbs of themselves around the place easily, letting themselves live in it, and he wishes he could do the same.  
Sometimes, Dean thinks, Cas, awkward and stiff as he is, is better at being human than he is. Not that he’d ever tell him that.  
Cas, with his chipped, cheesy mug, with the smiling sun on it, a hook on the back of his bedroom door to hold his old trench coat. With his bookcase full of dusty books in a million different languages, and his shelf full of tiny succulents he never quite manages to keep alive.  
And Dean wouldn’t even know about those things had he not been letting himself slip into Cas’s room, into his bed when it’s dark and silent out, and nobody can see how badly he wants to break the rules and keep it all to himself.

“You should go. Take Cas with you.” Sam tells him one morning when they’re talking about a nasty vampire nest in Texas, his eyes stubbornly unmoving from the paper in his hands. He says it lightly, like it’s okay that Dean is burning from the inside out with the sheer heat of desires he shoved aside for years.  
Dean bristles at the edges, his mouth goes dry and he steels himself for the questions that are inevitably coming.  
But they never do. Sam just stands up, “Just think about it, Dean” he says quietly, puts a hand on his shoulder, and then, softly, like he knows Dean doesn’t really want to hear it “You can let yourself have this, you know.”  
He’s gone before Dean can even think of a reply, and then all he can focus on is the silence thumping in his ears, the burning swell of longing in his chest.  
He makes coffee and doesn’t think about it too much when his legs take him to Cas’s room.

The nervous energy that pushed him this far starts fizzling out when he doesn’t find him in his room. The sound of the shower running is filling the room instead, and Dean hopes his resolve will still be there once Cas comes out.  
It’s when he’s looking for something to do, something for his hands to fidget with, that he sees the nail sticking out of Cas’s bed. Fixing it is mindless and easy work, a simple motion that soothes his thoughts, settles the air in his lungs.  
In the silence he can tell himself that even if words are failing him, and he keeps failing Castiel, at least he can make sure he’s safe in his own bedroom. Safe from anything that is not Dean and his filthy desire he can’t talk about.  
He hammers the rusty nail until it sits inside the frame again, until he almost feels like it’s okay, like he can do this one, small, irrelevant, thing for him, even when the words are still stuck, sticky and crumpled in his throat. He hammers it down until he can breathe easily again and the ache in his chest is more longing than shame.

When Cas says yes, it’s not really a surprise, but it still makes Dean shiver and fills him with something warm and foreign that almost feels like hope.

He packs for the trip, and he tries not to let himself linger too much on the fact that they’ll be in close quarters for a while, and there’ll be no escaping the blue of Castiel’s eyes, not in the stifled space of the Impala. Nothing has to happen, nothing has to change, he tells himself, but he doesn’t quite believe it.  
The lie doesn’t even get past the door of the Impala. It shatters right away, a flurry of broken confetti at Dean’s feet, when Cas jogs to the car, all nervous trembling and crinkly eyes.  
“Ready to hit the road?” Dean asks, clearing his throat, feeling his voice fail him as he forces the words out.  
“Yes, Dean” Castiel nods “I have made us food. For the road. I get hungry when I travel. This is cost-effective” he rambles, offering what looks like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, looking far prouder of it than anyone rationally should.  
Dean feels a trickle of warmth bubble up in his chest, and his bones suddenly feel tender, like he could sink his hands right into them.  
“Uh, yeah. Good idea, Cas.” he rasps out, reaching for the offered sandwich, hoping he’s more solid than he feels.  
The action makes Castiel’s mouth pick up at the corners, and the smile he gives Dean then is like sunrise, all pinks and fading blues and promises of a new day. It’s so bright that it hurts to look at, so Dean tears his eyes away and plants his gaze down.  
“Let’s go. It’s getting late” he says, even though it’s the middle of the morning and there’s nobody pressing at their heels.  
If Castiel knows it’s a deflection he doesn’t comment on it, and Dean is grateful.

They drive down the country in a straight line, the road unfurling in front of the car like it’s making way just for them. Dean breathes in the dusty leather of the car, rolls the window down to let some breeze in, and feels solid again, centered.  
Castiel works the radio, nibbles on his sandwich and steals glances at Dean when he thinks he isn’t looking.  
There’s something unsaid hanging in the air between them; Dean can feel its presence, so heavy it’s as if there’s a ghost passenger in the car.  
But the breeze is cool and the music loud and the engine purrs for him, and it’s easy to pretend everything is normal.

Comfort only lasts a few hours and a bunch of miles, then the summer heat really kicks in, sun heating the inside of the car mercilessly.  
Castiel grows sweaty and antsy. He twists and turns in his seat, the leather squeaking under him, fans himself dramatically as they drive deeper into the south.  
“Sweating.. I don’t like it Dean.” he announces solemnly into the blazing afternoon as they cross the border into Oklahoma, road dust sticking to his damp skin, eyes crinkled at the corner mournfully. Dean cranks up the air conditioning and pretends not to watch the sweat dry slowly on Castiel’s skin.  
By the time they find a town to stop for some food, Cas looks so miserable in Dean’s borrowed jeans and leather boots that Dean has to give in and stop at a second hand store to let him buy shorts and a pair of sneakers.  
He refuses to go in with him, tells him to “man up” about it and that no respectable man would go around dressed like a little boy scout, no matter how hot it gets outside. His comments don’t seem to deter Castiel one bit, and Dean can’t really say he minds.  
When Castiel comes back from his little shopping trip there’s a dorky smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He wriggles and shuffles happily in his seat, shorts riding up his thighs.  
“This is much more suitable attire for summer, Dean. I don’t know why you insist on jeans and flannel. Very inconvenient if you ask me” he lectures, head cocked to the side, and Dean is a little too taken by the slim curve of his calves to form a snappy response.  
So he just turns the car on and lets him think he won this one.

***

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Texas, Dean runs out of excuses to not let Castiel drive. So when they pull over to a dusty gas station to refuel on coffee and gas, they switch places and Dean settles in the passenger side.  
It could be a good chance to take a nap, but he's too anxious about Cas's driving skills to fully relax.  
So he sits there, ramrod straight, watching Castiel watch the road.  
Tells himself the only reason why he can’t peel his eyes from Castiel’s hands is because he’s looking out for his Baby, doesn’t want anything to happen to her. That’s it.  
And then there’s the sound of a guitar softly croaking out of the radio speakers, Dean listens, loses himself in the spiraling melody.

_So, so you think you can tell_  
_Heaven from Hell,_  
_Blue skies from pain?_

And damn if that doesn’t feel a bit too close to home. He’s reaching out to change stations because sometimes music hits him just a little too hard and a little too deep and he can’t let himself go there right now, not with Cas so close. Not with the sun so high in the sky and no place to hide.  
But then Cas starts humming the melody, low and tuneless in his throat, and suddenly everything else goes quiet and still in Dean’s head and his hand freezes like that, midway to the console.

_Did they get you to trade_  
_Your heroes for ghosts?_  
_Hot ashes for trees?_  
_Hot air for a cool breeze?_

Cas drums his fingers on the steering wheel, smirks a little, like the song is actually speaking to him and he’s listening.  
There’s an ease to him like that, all messy hair and stubbly cheeks and pink skin, that Dean hasn’t really seen on him before. Or maybe he hasn’t let himself look long enough.

_Did you exchange_  
_A walk on part in the war_  
_For a lead role in a cage?_

He does now, spurred on by the raspy hum coming from Castiel’s chest, he lets his eyes trail slow all over his body. They climb up, steady, from his fingers, up his bare arms, to his armpits, his chest, the sweat-slick dip of his collarbones. His jaw, his lips. The rumble in his chest as he hums with the radio, the tilt of his head as he observes the road, the slack fold of his mouth curling into a smile.  
Castiel watches the road and Dean watches Castiel.

_How I wish, how I wish you were here_  
_We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl_  
_Year after year_

The rumble of the engine seeps through Dean’s skin, settles in his gut, makes him so hungry he almost feels ravenous. It spreads to his limbs, slow and fever-like, makes his palms itch and his toes curl up in his boots.  
The car is hot and stuffy and yet his hands feel cold and empty. Cas’s skin is just a few inches of leather away, bare and inviting. And Dean can’t fight it.  
He lets it happen when he feels his hand moving slow towards Cas’s leg, settle on the hairy hill of his knee, like a resting place.  
Castiel flinches a little, stops humming his song, and his muscles tense for a second, before relaxing into the contact.

_Running over the same old ground_  
_What have we found?_  
_The same old fears_  
_Wish you were here_

The road flies under the Impala’s wheels, getting churned away bit by bit, but neither of them is really paying attention. Dean's gaze is settled somewhere far, on the horizon he can't really see.  
He doesn’t watch his hand, doesn’t study the way it’s inching upwards on Cas’s thigh, the way it rubs slow circles into the exposed skin. He doesn’t look at the goosebumps spreading everywhere on Cas’s skin, the way his grip on the steering wheel gets tighter and tighter, the way his breath stutters in his lungs with every inch Dean’s hand gains on his leg.

Then there’s a small bump in the road, Castiel flies right through it without slowing down one bit and it’s enough to jolt them both upwards. Dean turns his head, some words about being more careful already loaded up in his throat. But they never reach his mouth.  
Because Cas’s skin is all flushed pink, it spreads from his cheeks down to his chest, and he’s breathing fast and stilted, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every gulp of air he takes in.  
Dean’s eyes feast on him. He looks raggedy and unpolished, human.  
Dean’s mouth is as dry as sand. His hand is still moving upwards on Cas’s leg. He looks down at it, his own tanned fingers curled loosely over Cas’s pale thigh, inching away, pushing the flimsy fabric of his shorts further and further.  
His fingertips tingle with the heat radiating from Cas’s skin, like an irresistible magnetic pull.

“Dean” Cas rasps out, a low growl, maybe a warning. Dean can’t find any words to say so he just watches Cas’s thigh twitch a little under his fingers, his hips lifting from the seat for just a second.  
And he’s hard. The fabric of his shorts is pulled tight over his groin, and Dean’s mouth waters, and he can’t tear his eyes away.  
Heat spikes in his belly, white hot and sudden and inescapable.  
He gives in.  
There’s a tremble in his fingers as he lets his hand crawl under the hem of Cas’s flimsy shorts, caress deliberately up his thigh, and up, under the elastic of his briefs, in the fold where leg meets groin.

And then Castiel groans, guttural and animal-like, and they’re pulling over, gravel hitting the underside of the car loudly, but Dean doesn’t care. Cas’s eyes are hooded and dark, his pupils so dilated that the blue is just a thin circle around them.

Some guy on the radio is crooning about daddy issues and tequila as Dean tugs Cas’s shorts down just enough to find him hard and warm and wanting. And then Cas’s fingers are working at the button of his jeans, and Dean feels the anticipation building in his gut with every button that pops open. He pushes into Cas’s fist as soon as he’s free from the confines of the denim and he doesn’t listen to his own moans ricocheting inside the car.

They don’t kiss. They pant in each other’s mouths, and Castiel’s breath tastes like coffee and summer dust. He’s obscene like this, head thrown back, neck exposed, mouth open, lips curled around a moan, sweat dripping from his temples, down his neck.  
Dean’s lips itch with the need to close the distance, taste the moans rushing out of his mouth, lick the groans right off his tongue. But he doesn’t.  
Because the sun is shining high in the sky, everything is bright and naked and there’s no shadows for him to hide in. He can see the sunburn blooming on Cas’s nose, the messy stubble covering his cheeks, the wet dip right above his lips, his eyes, blue and clear and staring at Dean with a longing that feels like it’s primal and raw and everlasting.  
And Dean wants to have him, wants to keep this, all of it, but he can’t say it.  
He doesn’t know how to love him in daylight, doesn’t know how to love him honest.  
So he tucks his head in the crook of Cas's neck, where he smells like dusty leather, and sweat, and cheap soap. He smells like Dean. Like home.  
He ruts into his fist and pants into his skin and tells himself that it’s enough.

Castiel comes first, jerky and breathless, Dean’s hand in his pants and name on his lips.  
Dean noses at his jaw until the stubble scratches his skin and everything he can smell, taste, feel, is Cas.  
When he comes it rolls out of him in waves, pleasure mixing with the heat, punching the air out of his lungs, his thoughts out of his brain. He slumps on the seat and he lets himself be held up, crumples against the solid, sticky warmth of Castiel’s body and doesn’t open his eyes.

Warm longing blooms slow in his gut, like he wants to dig himself a burrow into Cas's chest, safe and warm and dark. Wants to make himself small, so small, that he'll fit inside his ribcage, and just curl up there. Watch his heart beat and feel his lungs expand with every breath, in and out. Touch the pink tendrils of his veins and feel his blood pumping steady through his body.  
He wants Castiel to keep him and hide him and never let him go, and the desire is so strong and so overwhelming he can barely admit it to himself.

He drags the aftermath out as long as he can, lets Cas clean them both up best as he can with some wet wipes that are already half dried out. He sweeps over Dean's navel with a slow tenderness that makes him want to weep all over again, and it's so gentle and so careful that he can barely stand it.  
So he keeps his eyes shut tightly, breathes against Cas's skin, lets him tuck him back into his jeans, his fingertips warm and unhurried on his damp skin.  
He stays there until the heat becomes unbearable, the smell of their combined sweat too pungent to be ignored, and Dean detaches himself slowly, peels his skin from where it's stuck to Cas's and doesn't let himself look at him because he doesn't know how to deal with what he'll see there.

There's a sharp intake of breath in Castiel's chest that sounds like he's about to say something that Dean isn't ready to hear.  
“Dean, we should ta-” he starts, voice all raspy and tentative.  
Dean interrupts him, ruthlessly “We should go; still got miles to cover”.

There’s a long, clammy, beat of silence, before Castiel sighs, long and heavy, and turns the car back on without saying another word. There’s a sticky clench in Dean’s throat that tastes like guilt, but he swallows it down with a sip of tar-like cold coffee and tells himself there’s nothing he can do about it.

He folds himself back into his side of the car, and keeps his hands shut tightly between his knees for the rest of the ride.

***

It’s night out when they finally reach Austin, and there’s a light breeze in the air that soothes their overheated bodies and carries some of the tension away.  
They haven’t talked about it, any of it, Dean can almost see the words stuck in Castiel’s throat, with how badly he wants to have a discussion, to clear things up. But Dean doesn’t know where they’re headed, and he’s terrified, and he doesn’t have the words to talk about it. So he stays silent, and hopes Cas can find it in himself to forgive him.

The engine clicks as it cools and they park the car in front of a food truck that promises to have the best tacos in Texas. The menu is plastered on the side of the truck and completely in spanish and Dean is about to walk back to the car when he catches Castiel’s excited smile out the corner of his eye.  
“I haven’t had the chance to speak Spanish in a very long time.” he says, shrugging at his quizzical look, like it’s okay that he used to be a celestial, all-knowing being, and now he’s getting late night tacos with Dean in the middle of a parking lot. Dean feels soft for him.  
So, he takes a seat, lets Castiel order for him, listens to him make small talk with the woman in the window, making her laugh with words Dean doesn’t understand. He wishes he wasn’t as in awe of him as he is.  
They eat, knees knocking together under the flimsy outdoor table, licking their fingers as the tacos overflow into their hands. The picture of Castiel’s tongue sweeping carelessly over his wrist to catch a drop of juice is almost too much for Dean to bear, sensual in a natural and instinctive way that makes heat coil in his belly all over again.  
He checks his phone for something to do with his hands that is not reaching out for Cas’s wet fingers and sucking them into his mouth.  
There are three texts from Sam, the first two giving them a potential location for the vampire nest, the third asking if he and Cas are doing okay. He snaps a picture of his half-eaten taco in response, and knows it’s not what Sam was asking for, but that’s all he’s got right now.

Hands sticky and bellies full, they get back into the car, and maybe it’s the good food and maybe it’s the chilly night, but the air between them feels less charged.  
Dean drives around for a while, figuring out the layout of the city, scouting for a decent enough motel with a 24 hour check in, Castiel slouching in the passenger seat and blinking slow and sleepy.

The motel they end up staying at is in the outskirts of town, surrounded by crappy car dealerships and shady parking lots.  
Dean books a double and Castiel heads for his bed as soon as they walk in, wordlessly shedding items of clothing as he walks, until all that’s left are his boxers, and he flops down on the mattress, not even bothering with the covers.  
Dean hates himself a little for looking, hates himself a little more for not reaching out.  
He walks straight to the shower and takes his time, scrubs at his skin until he can’t feel Castiel’s touch lingering on it anymore, and then he scrubs some more. Scrubs until his skin is flushed clean and he can almost pretend his thoughts are too.

When he settles into bed it’s with his eyes firmly planted on the smooth planes of Cas’s naked back. There's a bright neon sign right outside the window that advertises vacancies, and its cheap lights pool gentle over Cas's skin. Tinge it with blue, then red, then green, like he's a canvas, ready to be painted, a blank screen where Dean can picture whole worlds.  
He can’t stop looking. He can’t stop projecting.  
He watches the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, listens to the low rumble of his breaths, until his eyes blurry out and he tumbles into sleep.  
When he dreams, it tastes like coffee and it smells like leather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, posting the sequel I never thought I'd actually write. And posting it in chapters too cause it's that long.  
> This is the longest thing I've written in years and it was an intense (and stressful) experience, so I really really hope someone out there will get to read it and enjoy it.  
> If you have *any* opinions about this work, good or bad, PLEASE do let me know, I am trying to push my writing and I need all the help I can get!!  
> I will be posting the rest of it soon, thank you if you have read this far, it means the world <3  
> I will be here, casually reloading the page every 10 minutes and longing for validation in the meantime ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, second chapter, or as I like to call it, "the one with the vampires and The Sex" =D  
> This is where both the mild-gore and explicit sex tags come into play (at VERY different times though), just so you're warned! It's also the longest chapter in this little series, cause *things* happen, so buckle up!

The next day is just as bright and stifling as the one before, as they wander through the town, campus first, then downtown, interrogating witnesses, gaining intel.  
Castiel has to finally trade his shorts for a suit but he looks so miserable and sweaty all day that Dean can’t even find it in himself to tease him about it.  
When he sees a stall selling bubble tea Dean buys it for him, because it makes Cas’s eyes go all squinty with curiosity, in a way that reminds Dean of his early angel days, when everything about humanity felt confusing and puzzling. He lets himself watch idly as Castiel’s lips wrap around the straw, his fingers playing with the condensation on the plastic cup.  
“It’s... sweet. And chewy. I’m glad I can’t taste the molecules,” he says, stretching his lips into a smile and Dean wonders if they taste like sugar.

They talk to students and professors and food vendors, until they meet a girl, who’s shy and sad and scared, and tells Castiel he looks gentle as she cries into his shoulder. Dean watches him pat her on the back, awkward but sincere, like he wishes he could take all the pain away from her. She dries her tears as she tells them about her two of her friends who disappeared after booking a ride home with the new university rideshare app. How she’s been too afraid to speak up.  
“It’s a new service. You can only get it with a student account,” she tells them “They’re supposed to get you home safe for cheap.” Dean instantly knows that’s how the vampires are tricking so many young people so fast, and wishes there could just be something wholesome in the world for once.  
They thank her and leave her with a tissue and a promise that they’ll look into it and keep her friends safe.  
After that it’s only a matter of waiting for the night to fall.

They drive around, decide to stake out a popular student hang out downtown and wait for the hired cars to come scouting for victims.  
The sun is relentless and the Impala swells with dry heat, and Dean feels lust like a rock in his throat when Cas undoes his tie and pops a couple buttons on his shirt.

It’s sunset when they cross the bridge back into town and see giant clouds of bats sprouting from beneath the bridge. Castiel smiles, big and gummy, and tells him how silly he finds it that humans are afraid of them; “smart, useful, little creatures” he calls them.  
Dean makes a joke about the Batcave that clearly goes over his head, but he smiles and chuckles anyway because he knows it’ll make Dean happy.  
Dean’s heart stutters in his chest a little and he wishes he could just stop the car in the middle of the road, climb on the hood, fit Cas’s body into own his as they watch the sun plunge orange into the river.

Night eventually comes and they end up on 6th Street, where it’s loud all night and people bump into them and think their FBI badges are a cosplay. Dean feels hyper-aware of the years on his back, as young bodies swarm around them, sweaty and loud and carefree in a way he hasn’t experienced in a long time.  
Half of him wishes he could join them. The other half wants to shut it all down and sit in quiet silence until all that’s left is the soft rumble of Castiel’s breathing.  
They roam around, observing the bars they know people have disappeared from, asking questions, keeping an eye out for any marked cars on the street.  
They don’t really blend in with the young partying crowds, not in their dark suits and shiny shoes, so they hover at the edges, and Dean has too much time to steal glances at the little triangle of skin between the undone buttons of Castel’s shirt. He knows what his skin tastes like there, and there’s a sense memory in his mouth now that craves the taste again.  
He takes a sip of beer every time he gets the urge and by the time bars start shutting down he ends up tipsier than he’d like to be on a hunt.

They’re heading out of San Jac saloon, when Castiel starts shouting at him over the mess of music spilling out of the bars into the street. Dean keeps missing half of the words, so he gets closer, and Castiel’s stubble tickles the skin of his ear, makes him shiver. “I saw a girl book one of those university taxis with her phone. We should go,” he says, pointing at a group of young women in the crowd.

His hunch ends up being correct, and they follow as the girl gets into the same marked car the student had told them about. They jump into the Impala and follow the car through the busy streets, until they reach an isolated warehouse at the edge of town.  
It sits alone at the end of a dirt road, abandoned and dark, covered in graffiti.  
The car in front of them stops. “They must be keeping them in there to feed,” Dean says, pulling to a stop before they get too close. He’s buzzing a little with the alcohol in his system, but his hands are itching for something to do, a purpose, something to keep his brain focused and occupied.  
The stark look in Castiel’s eyes tells him he wants the same. “Let’s go check it out” he says, and it’s easy like that, two hunters on a job, nothing more, nothing less.  
They jump out of the car when they see the driver opening the rear passenger door and dragging a terrified girl towards the warehouse.  
They gather their blades and dead man’s blood syringes and run to the dark building. When they get close enough to glance inside, they can see that there are three young people tied to the pillars with ropes and chains, plus two vampires circling slow around them, keeping guard.  
One of the victims is passed out, her skin pale and sick looking; the others are barely awake, their features contorted in pain and fear. The girl from the car is being dragged by her arms, and she’s screaming and fighting against the tall vampire who’s dragging her to be tied up.  
Dean feels his blood boil with the need to kill something.  
He trades a glance with Castiel and sees the same determination reflected in his eyes.

They’re about to barge in, when they hear the slow rumble of an engine coming up right behind them. There isn’t enough time to hide so they just turn around, machetes clutched into sweaty fists, and face whatever is coming.  
A man and a woman get down from the car, teeth bared and charging at them, dragging another victim behind them, and Dean is ready for this. He swings his machete fast and hard, hits the guy square in the chest.  
He doesn’t have to look at his side to see Castiel take on the woman, can feel him dodging and hitting, hands skilled and deadly.  
The commotion alerts the other vampires inside, and they rush out, weapons in hand and teeth snapping at them.  
They’re outnumbered. Dean is painfully aware of his body’s shortcomings when a tall skinny guy dodges a hit and punches him right in the temple, so hard it sends him flying to the ground. The gravel grates his wrist and his cheek, and before he has a chance to grab his blade, the guy is on him, eyes feral as he tries to latch onto any naked patch of skin he can see. He feels teeth break skin on his wrist; the pain is sharp, but it only lasts a second.  
When he glances up, the guy’s head is neatly sliding away from his body, blood dripping at the edges, Castiel’s blade still suspended in the air behind him.

Still trying to catch his breath, he drags his gaze up towards where Castiel stands, tall and shaky and panting, his skin rough and his eyes dark. His body is strung tight, poised and coiled like an animal about to pounce. He looks powerful, glorious, like if Dean listens close enough he’ll hear the flutter of his wings, see the grace swell bright in his chest.  
And all Dean wants to do, all he can think about, is throwing himself at his feet, knees on the ground, eyes in the mud, and prostrate himself to him.  
He wants to kneel and bend his neck and pray to him - _Tell me what to do. I want it all so badly it hurts, but I don't know how to do this. I never have. Give me orders and I'll follow them. Guide me. Lead me._ -  
He aches for it, shakes with the force of it, of how much he wants it, how badly he craves it.  
He wants to rest his head on the soft pouch of his belly, feel Castiel's hands card through his hair as he holds him together. Wants Castiel to give him what he needs, because he has never been allowed to reach out and take it for himself.

When Castiel offers him a hand he takes it, lets him help him to his feet, tries to pretend his skin doesn’t hum at the brief contact.  
He’s barely on his feet again when the vampires close in on them. Dean can lose himself in the heat of the fight, the mechanical shift and pull of his body, and he’s grateful for it.  
He hits and swings until his face is splattered with blood and there are two more fanged heads rolling in the dirt.

Castiel is behind him, circling around one of the women, looking like he’s about to finish her off, when Dean catches sight of one of the vampires sprinting inside the warehouse. He gives chase, follows her so close he’s like a hound snapping at her heels.  
“Beth!” comes a voice from inside, one of the victims, Dean realizes. The vampire runs faster towards the voice, but Dean reaches out, grabs her by the hair, slams her into the ground.  
The girl is still screaming for her -“Wait! NO! Beth!”- pulling at the ropes binding her with all the energy she has. Dean gets distracted for a second, looking at her, his mind working fast to figure out what he’s missing.  
It’s enough for the vampire, Beth, to flip him over, claws digging into his skin, mouth open to sharp teeth ready to sink into his neck. She gets close enough to scrape at his jaw, licking the blood oozing from the wound, before he frees his machete and swings hard on her neck. A quick, clean cut that leaves her head to roll around in the dust.  
The girl screams again, raw and primal and pained, and Dean really can’t understand what’s going on.

Castiel appears at his side as soon as he’s upright, machete held high, an eyebrow quirked on his forehead as he glances around to make sure they have neutralized all the threats.

The girl is still screaming and sobbing as Dean starts turning towards the victims. But he doesn’t make it. There’s a hand on his arm, Castiel’s fingers clutching him tightly, lingering. Before he can say anything there are fingers on his face, warm and careful, padding over his scraped cheek, the bleeding cut on his jaw, slowly, mimicking an act of healing that they both know can’t happen anymore.  
The touch is feather light and pleasant, like putting a heating pad over sore bones, and all he can feel is the soothing heat and none of the pain.  
“Dean. Are you okay?” Castiel asks him, eyes searching, turned down at the corner, like he’s apologizing for not being able to heal him. Dean aches behind his ribs, warmth sizzling there for this creature, soft and fallible, his.  
The breath that he sucks in then is dry and dusty; it doesn’t sit quite right in his lungs. “Yeah. Yeah, Cas. I’m- I’m alright,” he rasps out, and if he leans a little bit into the touch, there’s nobody there to blame him.  
He clears his throat and Castiel takes his warm fingers back to himself, leaving him cold.

The three conscious victims are staring at them, wide eyed and scared.  
“What did you do?” one of them asks as soon as they’re close enough. “Did you kill her?” she screams, and Dean can see that she’s only tied with ropes, no chains.  
“Who’s Beth,” Castiel asks, confused, and Dean nods towards the decapitated body laying a few feet behind them. Castiel nods, turns towards the girl with gentle eyes. “What’s your name,” he asks her, hands reaching out to untie the ropes that bind her. “She was going to turn me! We- we were going to be together forever!” she screams, struggling against Castiel’s body, like he’s the monster and not the savior.  
“Into a vampire. She was going to turn you into a vampire,” Dean scoffs, baffled at her naivete.  
“I wanted it! She deserved to live!” the girl screams at his face, her hands now free as she reaches out to struggle weakly against his chest.  
Dean pushes her away, restraining her bloody arms as gently as he can. “Hey, hey, hey, now. No need for that. We saved your ass. A little gratitude would be nice.” he snaps.  
“Dean,” Castiel interrupts him firmly, a hand on his arm. “She’s in pain. She thinks we took her lover from her.”  
“Well, sometimes people just don’t know what’s best for them, do they.” he snaps, and Castiel doesn't answer. When Dean looks up at him again there’s a look in his eyes, dawning realization, like he just got the final piece he needed to complete a puzzle. Dean takes a breath to ask him what he’s staring at so hard, but there are victims to be freed and wounds to be tended to, and he forgets.

Dean works at the knots, undoes the chains, gives out water to the parched victims, and waits for the familiar relief of knowing he has just done a good thing -saved people, hunt things- but it never comes.  
There's a restless energy thrumming under his bones instead, swelling hot whenever he catches Castiel's inquisitive eyes under the warehouse’s neon lights, builds up with every angry sob tumbling out of the girl's lips.  
By the time they're done and the victims have been safely delivered to a hospital, Dean is unsettled and skittish, like all his organs have shifted to the side by a couple inches and they don’t quite make sense inside his body anymore.  
He sits in the car in the hospital parking lot, engine on idle, fingers clutching his knee where it bounces up and down, restless. He thinks of the girl, of her screams, the hatred in her eyes, like he’s the monster, like he took something that was never his to take.  
Then there’s the quiet pressure of Cas’s hand sliding slow on his arm, his wrist, dry and warm, as he tangles their fingers together where they lay on Dean's leg.  
“You made the right call, Dean” he whispers in the dimly lit interior of the car, shadows striping his face in darkness and warm light.  
Dean wants to reply that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, wants to be pissed at Cas for reading him so easily, but the night is heavy on his shoulders and the car is still swelling with dry heat, and it’s just easier to let go.  
He wets his lips, nods, clutches his fingers too tightly around Castiel’s, until they stop shaking.

***

When they get back to the motel, Castiel showers first while Dean paces the room a little, listening to the irregular spluttering of water crashing on his body, picturing the pink rivulets of bloody water descending slowly through the valley of his hip bones.  
By the time Castiel emerges from the bathroom, all damp, messy hair and pink skin, Dean’s mouth is dry and there’s sweat on his back that has nothing to do with the heat.  
He avoids looking at him, any of him, as he makes for the bathroom, locks the door behind him like it can shut out the lust mounting inside his chest.  
He takes a shower that’s mostly cold water and calming breaths and hands avoiding touching his own skin for too long.

Once he gets out it’s to find Castiel sprawled on his bed, legs partially covered by the thin sheet, head turned to the wall so Dean can’t see if he’s sleeping or still awake.  
He settles on the opposite bed and fails every attempt to keep his eyes on the bare ceiling and not on the white spread of skin between Castiel’s shoulders.

Desire happens slowly, hiccups its way through Dean's body until he's overtaken by it and doesn't really know how it happened.  
He looks at him, all of him, the unblemished stretch of his muscular back, and the puffy slash of sunburn on his cheeks, a little perfect and little broken.  
And it's like his spine is made of old rotten wood, it cracks and splinters loud under the crushing weight of his desire.  
It sounds like giving in.

It's an ugly, teeth-baring, bloody little beast, his desire. It snaps and claws and wants and takes. And he usually manages to smooth out its edges, make it tolerable and even nice. So that when he fits his body against someone else's they don't get hurt.  
That’s how it used to be with Lisa. Sweet, soft, smart Lisa. With her dark hair and her clean house, and her nice pillows. Dean had loved her, loved her the way you love things that can only see the surface. There was always so much he couldn’t say to her, so much she didn’t see.  
It's different with Castiel. With him Dean can't help but being all jagged edges and raw twisted metal.  
Giving into his desire for him feels like swallowing a mouthful of glass, the shards crunching under his teeth, digging into his gums, slicing his throat open from the inside out. Until he's choking on his own blood and he can't swallow it down and it trickles down his lips like a feral display. And yet Castiel never shies away from him, he kisses the blood off his lips, fits his body against his and if the glass slices him open he doesn’t say it.  
He’s tenderness where Dean is anger, assurance where Dean is doubt; he’s soft light where Dean is crumbling darkness.

Cas must sense that he’s looking at him, because he stretches out, slow and languid and sleep rumpled. Dean can’t tear his eyes away.  
He turns to look at him with half lidded eyes that still glint gentle in the dark. There’s a sheen of sweat on his neck, sliding all the way down his spine, into the confines of his boxers.  
Dean itches to follow it with his fingertips, with his tongue. Taste the salt of him in his mouth.  
Cas’s left arm is dangling from his mattress, in the space between their beds, and it would take so little for Dean to stretch and reach out to him.  
So he does.  
It feels as if the space between them is filled with all the things Dean wants but has never been allowed to have. All the things that end up being thrown in the hollow inside his chest, feeding the furnace of longing that burns everlasting inside him.  
He reaches out through the clutter and finds Castiel’s hand on the other side, like it’s been waiting for him, like it’s already his.  
He tangles their fingers together, leaves them there, suspended between them, and the brush of their hands together feels grounding in a way he can't really explain.  
He scoffs a little then, embarrassed that he's getting all giddy about hand holding, like a schoolgirl. He starts untangling their fingers, taking his hand away, but Cas doesn't let him.  
He tightens his fingers around his, and tugs just a little, just enough for Dean to get the message. There’s a sure look in his eyes that won’t let Dean back away.  
Dean feels too tired to fight it. He gives in.  
Lets Cas tug his hand, his arm, until they’re sharing the same bed. Skin brushing together, close and sticky, lungs sharing the same stale motel air.  
Castiel looks at him then, his eyes soft, turned down at the corners. They look at Dean like they see his soul, his very essence, his true wants and desires.  
It makes Dean want to hide, and it makes him desperate to be found.

He kisses Dean then, slow and sure.  
Pushes him into the mattress gingerly, like he's afraid he'll bolt otherwise. Dean can't deny he might.  
It's different this time; there's no urgency, no burning heat behind the gentle sweep of Cas's tongue in his mouth. He coaxes his lips open with his own, careful and achingly tender, and Dean can feel the seams of his soul splitting at the edge with every sweep of Cas’s lips, every brush of his hands on his bare skin.  
He lets himself be kissed, deep and wet and slow. It feels as if he's being emptied out, like he wants to reach deep into his own chest cavity, claw at it until he can scoop his soul out, and lay it down at Castiel's feet, like an offering.

But it’s a mangled, shredded, shriveled thing, his soul. He can almost picture the holes where the hooks sank in, holding it up so it could be slashed at.  
That’s what Castiel saw the first time he met him, the maimed, bloody, remains of his soul. Beaten in every way possible. Ugly, terrifying.  
Sometimes he wonders if it’s him, his very presence, who has corrupted Castiel’s being. Turned him from an Angel of the Lord, powerful, unblemished, infinite, to the sweaty mess of a human laying in front of him now. Dean wonders how he could possibly be so selfish to want to keep Castiel all for himself, when he has cost him so much already, when he’s the rotten core that has corrupted his grace from the very beginning.

He pictures his black soul as Cas kisses him, and he can’t help but feeling cleaner with every touch he allows himself to give into.  
He lets himself be kissed until he's empty and light and all he can feel is the tenderness in Cas's touch, the warmth in the words being muttered against his skin.  
It sounds like Enochian and Dean has no clue what it all means, but there's a tinge of reverence in Castiel's voice that makes him feel like he's being worshiped. He never wants it to stop.

He feels him, body warm and sticky and solid, when everything else seems to be turning into dust around Dean. Castiel's hands are everywhere, searching and sure, holding him together. They sneak under his t-shirt, find his bare chest, leaving goosebumps wherever they touch, until he’s splayed on the bed, Castiel’s body framed between his legs.  
Hunger builds in his gut, and he craves more of it, a deeper touch, everywhere.  
Cas’s lips flit from his face, down the curve of his neck, to his collarbones, his sternum. Wet and soft and gentle. Dean arches into them, feeding more of skin into the touch. He wants to be devoured, wants to be consumed.  
Castiel obliges.  
He kisses and licks and bites, wet and small things he leaves on his skin like a present to remember him by. Cas’s hands are still moving slow, as if through water, and every touch lasts a century on Dean’s skin.  
“Take it off,” Cas whispers, pushing his t-shirt up, his lips barely moving where they rest on Dean’s neck. Dean obeys, lust and longing crashing violently inside him, a swirling, pulsating wave of energy he doesn’t know how to resist.

It’s skin on skin then, and every point of contact feels charged, alive; Dean can’t help but pushing his body against Cas’s, hips rutting into him, craving the spark over and over again.  
He lusts, feels it hot and throbbing between his legs, wants it hard and fast and sweaty, wants to get lost in the wet slide of their bodies together and wants it to be so loud he won’t hear the thoughts spinning in his brain anymore.

But the more Dean grows frantic, the slower and heavier Castiel’s body gets on top of him, pushing him into the mattress with a gentle but relentless strength that he’s powerless to fight.  
“Shh... Dean. It’s okay,” Cas murmurs. Dean feels it in the hot breath on his skin, in the rumble inside his chest, feels it deep into his own bones.  
He wants to cry out and he doesn’t know why. He chokes out a moan as Cas’s hands find his nipples, the soft pouch of his stomach, the tender scar on his ribs.  
His hands are slow and dry, his lips wet and tender and they map it all, like Castiel is taking inventory of all the things that are his. Dean wants him to have them all.  
“Dean,” he whispers, raspy and deep. “Dean. You’re so-” between a lingering press of his lips and the next “-Beautiful”.  
He sounds like he’s in awe and Dean wants to make him stop, wants to tell him about his rotten soul, wants to tell him he’s sorry. Wants to let him get away, somewhere distant, where he can be happier. But his throat isn’t working right, and there are no words to be found, and Dean’s head is foggy with want. So he just shuts his eyes tight against the pricking of tears behind his eyelids and breathes Cas in deep.

“Open your eyes,” Cas says in a tone that doesn’t leave any space for arguments. So Dean forces his eyes open again, settles them on the ceiling because he can feel the tenderness in Cas’s voice but he doesn’t want to see it reflected in his eyes.  
Then there’s a hand on his cheek, and Castiel’s eyes are right there, blue and deep and liquid. There’s raw emotion swimming in the pool of his eyes and Dean doesn’t want to name it, so he pushes their faces closer instead, and when Cas breathes he feels it on his own lips.  
Dean kisses him again and slides his hands into his hair, into the knots of his shoulders, onto his back. He clutches at Cas’s body like it’s being pulled away from him, like it’s the last time, because it feels like it is. But Cas is right there, over and over, solid and sure and his.  
Dean wants to cry again, in relief.

Castiel’s fingers are unhurried as they slide down his chest, down his navel, his hips, to push his briefs down his legs. Dean’s skin thrums in wonder all over under his reverent gaze.  
There’s heat and skin everywhere, until there isn’t and Dean almost gets whiplash when Cas peels his body away and leaves the bed without saying a word.  
He comes back before Dean can clear his brain enough to put words together, two packets clutched in his hand, and he’s naked now too. The sight of him nude distracts Dean from all the hows and whys and whens he wants to ask.

Cas kisses him over and over, until their bodies are sliding slow together, until they’re touching everywhere and Dean feels drunk and there’s a hum in his body that resonates in the thin spaces between their skin.  
Cas kisses him until Dean can’t stand it anymore and feels like his chest is cracked open; then he kisses him some more. Kisses him until nothing exists outside of the swollen press of their lips together and Dean has forgotten how to breathe on his own.  
“Please. Cas.” he begs then, right into his mouth, and he doesn’t know what he’s begging for, but he knows he needs it, and he needs it now.  
Cas doesn’t say anything; he just nods a little, takes his lips away, and Dean can see him work the packets open out of the corner of his eye.  
He tries to breathe, but it’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room and all he can focus on is the slow slide of Castiel’s fingers down his leg, past his groin, between his cheeks, where they press in, cold and wet and like nothing Dean was expecting.  
He chokes a little, his body clenching on itself instinctively, but Castiel just shushes him, a hand cupping his face gently, thumb brushing slow over his wet lips.  
Dean closes his eyes then because he can’t let himself think about the way Castiel’s eyes are looking at him, like he’s the most precious thing in the universe, like, in all of Creation, there has never been anything more worthy and pure than Dean Winchester.  
And Dean knows it’s a lie, and he wants it all nonetheless, and he can’t stand it.  
So he spirals down, gives himself out to the careful slide of the fingers inside him, and for a while everything is hazy and warm and too much and not enough at the same time.

“Dean. Breathe.” comes Castiel’s voice eventually. It sounds so close and so far away at the same time, but Dean listens, feels dizzy with need or maybe lack of air; he doesn’t know.  
“Look at me,” Cas says, and his fingers are still pressing and moving inside of him, and Dean can’t look at him, he can’t. He pushes down on his fingers instead, spreading himself out in a way that should feel shameful but somehow doesn’t, a hand reaching out to stroke Cas where he’s hard and ready and wanting. Cas’s breath catches a little then, and Dean revels in the way he shudders and pushes into his fist, eyes slipping closed, heavy with desire.  
Dean wants him so bad he feels drunk with it.

He flips over then, hands clutching the blanket, knees pushing against the springs of the mattress. He hides his burning face into the cool pillow, feels Cas’s fingers slip out of him and leave him weirdly empty. There’s a thrum of anticipation vibrating in his body as he waits for Castiel to react, a beat of silence as he hopes, prays, he doesn’t make him ask for it.  
“Dean” Cas chokes out, and Dean is surprised at how his own name can sound so holy and so wrecked at the same time on his lips.

Then there’s the wet, slow press of Cas between his legs, and Dean forgets to think any of the thoughts in his head. He bites his lips as he feels him slide in, hard and hot and unrelenting, pushing in, carving him from the inside out, taking space that Dean never even knew he wanted to give.  
He breathes around the burn, fists clenched on the thin sheet, mouth open around a groan that doesn’t really come out.  
There’s a pause as Cas’s hips get flush with his, settle around the curves of his body, Cas’s hands finding the soft bend of his waist. Dean feels exposed, taken in a way he has never felt before and there’s a warmth blooming in his chest, like a piece finally slotting into place.  
He pushes back a little then, just enough to feel Cas shift inside him, and there’s raw bliss seeping into his veins, in the sweat sliding along his spine, pooling in the saliva inside his mouth.  
“Cas” he moans, because nothing makes sense anymore, nothing has meaning anymore, other than his name. And Cas is there, his body covering Dean’s, reaching into every last corner of him. He’s the reverent hands sweeping over Dean’s chest, slow and warm and gentle; he’s the mouth laying open over Dean’s spine, wet and searing hot, breath curling over his goosebumps. He’s the solid warmth moving slow and rhythmic inside of him, pushing and pulling, deeper and deeper, until Dean feels filled to the brim, body and soul, and he doesn’t know what to do with it all.

So he abandons himself to the current, lets his body flow with the tide of Castiel’s thrusts inside of him. Pleasure washes over him like waves, cooling and salty; drags his body under the water, but he’s not sinking, he’s floating on the surface, sun shining on his eyelids, and his face is tight with the drying salt.  
It ebbs and flows, in and out of him, a foaming bliss that is there one moment and disappears the next. His thoughts are lines in the sand, being written down just to be erased by the next rolling wave.  
There are sounds, words, slipping out of his lips but he wouldn’t know what they are.  
He floats, but he doesn’t drown, Cas’s touch anchoring him to a place where everything is bright and gentle and nothing hurts.

Pleasure builds in his gut, all slowness and non-urgency, until he’s full and throbbing between his thighs, and he lowers his hips to rut into the bundled up covers, desperate for any kind of friction, as Cas pushes into him and he pushes into the mattress.  
And Cas is covering him with his whole body, wide hands sweeping over his damp shoulders, down his arms, finding his hands and tangling their fingers together so tight Dean feels them go numb.

It’s a clutter of sensations, overwhelming and messy, and he’s swimming in and out of his mind, and he can only focus on random patches of it. The wetness of Cas’s breath on his spine, the fullness in his belly as Cas fucks into him, rolling his hips deep and slow and impossibly good.  
And Dean loves him all, loves him whole.  
Loves him deep into his body, in his tired bones, in his aching muscles; loves him in his soul, deep into the poor excuse of it he has left, he loves Castiel.  
When he’s empty and cold and there’s nothing else left to give, he loves him.  
He wants to say it, wants to open his mouth and leave the words on his skin like a confession, before they flow out of him again. But there’s only moans being pushed out of his throat with every snap of Castiel’s hips inside him, and all Dean manages to say is his name, over and over and over, until he’s breathless, until he’s tearful, and all he can do is pray that Cas knows what he means.

Cas’s name is still on his lips when he comes, hips trapped between the gentle give of the mattress and the unrelenting weight of Cas on top of him. It thrums all over his body, wet and hot and deep, and Dean feels it spread from his groin into his chest, his throat, his head, until everything is bright and pulsating light and he’s sinking into it, weightless.  
He goes lax on the mattress, muscles puddling on the bed, and he’s liquid all over as Cas keeps pushing into him, using his melting body to chase his own climax. Dean is happy to let him, welcomes the over-stimulation like a gift.  
He feels it when Cas comes, tensing impossibly tight, snapping, then melting all over his body as his hips stutter irregular inside him. It feels as if they’re sharing the same body then, just for a second, as Dean’s whole being shakes with the force of Cas’s orgasm, pleasure ricocheting through him like a bullet through water. It’s easy, so easy, to let himself get lost into it, warm and open and full and still floating.  
He lets himself cherish it, all of it, every shard of this warm, slow, feeling spreading through him, and he doesn’t feel wrong for wanting it, doesn’t feel guilty for keeping it.

It’s a lifetime and half before Cas detaches his body from his, and it still feels like it’s too soon. It leaves him emptier and colder than he ever wants to be.  
When Cas comes back, it’s to maneuver him onto the other bed, away from the wet mess they’ve made on the sheets.  
Dean lets his body flow with the motions, abandons himself to Cas’s ministrations with a trust he didn’t think he could ever feel with anyone. Cas cleans him up slow and gentle, pushes him under the covers and rolls him over until Dean is splayed on top of him, tucked tight against his chest. Dean nuzzles against the crook of neck and feels safer than he’s ever felt in his life.  
Sleep takes him where he is, heavy and naked and spread out, and he lets it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Yeah. I have a love/hate relationship with this chapter, it contains the scenes I struggled the most with, and the ones I like the best, and I'm just really hoping it doesn't actually suck as much as I think it does.  
> I kinda feel like this is heavier on the smut that I had initially pictured, but I also feel like Dean would approach things in a more instinctive and physical manner, before really sitting down and analyzing his feelings. If it doesn't make sense to you please feel free to let me know and we can talk about it =)  
> I truly hope you guys enjoyed this part, only one left now!  
> Whether you loved it or hated it, I'd LOVE to hear about it, this is very different from what I usually write, so comments and suggestions (and kudos!) make my day and fuel my writing <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. Here we go. This one has a bunch of dialogue, some angst, a thunderstorm, and a big, fat, Texas sunset.  
> I'm a little emotional posting this, and I really really hope whoever is reading this will enjoy it as much as I have enjoyed writing it <3  
> Again, BIG thanks to my beta, [Eyes_of_a_Tragedy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eyes_of_a_Tragedy/pseuds/Eyes_of_a_Tragedy) you made this story so much better, slimmed down my chunky dialogue of death, fixed all my messy commas, and I'm just so grateful!

The morning is a slow tumble into awareness. It’s soft, buttery light painting the walls, the steady rise and fall of Castiel’s chest beneath his, the slow padding of warm fingertips over his naked shoulder.  
Dean breathes it in for a moment, basks in the comfortable silence enveloping them both.  
He’s walking that soft line between awareness and sleep, his senses dulled and slow, anchored to reality only by Cas’s hands on his skin. His fingers are tracing symbols, precise little sweeps and twirls of things Dean doesn’t understand. The touch feels tender and loving, in a way that’s gentle and unassuming, like a mother’s touch on a child’s skin. Dean feels as if his bones are too big for his body, like he’s too old, too broken, to receive a caress that is so pure.  
He yearns for it nonetheless.

Consciousness is creeping at the edge of his eyes, but he fights it, clings to this shared intimacy for as long as he can, the way you cling to the frayed edges of a good dream, and the tighter he holds onto it, the faster it slips away.  
His body aches in ways he doesn’t recognize, tender and sticky, and the more he tries to relax, the more alert he becomes.  
A sigh escapes his lips when his brain finally loses the battle against awareness, and it tumbles right into the damp skin of Cas’s chest.

“Dean, you’re awake,” Cas says, voice deep and still raspy with sleep. He doesn’t stop the soothing motions on Dean’s back. Dean doesn’t reply, but he can feel stiffness seep through his muscles, where they were lax just seconds before. He says nothing.  
Cas lets out a breath that sounds content and weightless, like all the things Dean wishes to be but isn’t.  
“I was reading about a lake south of the city. It’s supposed to have really enjoyable scenery. I thought maybe-” Cas says, voice sweeping slow over Dean’s skin, almost in rhythm with his warm fingers “Maybe we could take a little detour?”  
Dean’s eyes are still shut tight against the skin of his chest, but he can still hear the smile in Cas’s words, easy and sunny.  
There’s a moment, a slow, wonderful second, when Dean’s brain is still too blissed out to react. Just a quiet moment when he can picture Cas’s hair mussed by the wind, blue eyes squinting at the ripples on the water, his body a warm weight against Dean’s. The picture is so clear and so close it feels as if he could just reach out and touch it; his mouth is pulled at the corners, almost teased into a smile.

And then he remembers. Reality closes in on him, heavy and stifling and inescapable.  
They're not lovers. They're soldiers, and this is a battlefield.  
And Dean knows, you don't get cozy in the trenches with your comrades. You kneel in the mud until they tell you to run, and then you do; you sprint and you push forward and you take down as many enemies as you can, until someone on the other side has better aim and takes you out.  
And then you lay your life down in the bloody soil, and you know you've served your purpose.  
There's no space for this gut-twisting want to caress and embrace and _keep_ , not on the battlefield.

He breathes deep and wishes the air wasn't all heavy with Castiel's scent. He can feel it filling his lungs, seeping through his skin.  
“What would I do that for?” he rumbles, and he can picture the words as tiny shards, flinging themselves at Cas’s naked, defenseless body. Cas is silent for a beat, his fingers still on Dean’s skin.  
“You like lakes,” Cas replies, and his voice is still warm, if a little curious, like he thinks Dean is teasing him. He says it easily, like it’s obvious that he knows the little things, like he’s supposed to notice them, to notice Dean and all the things that make him go soft inside.  
Dean’s body goes cold, he holds a breath in his lungs that smells like Cas, as he pushes his body upward and away from him.  
“Well, we’re not going,” he says, rolling away from the warm alcove of Cas’s arms, holding the sheet over his stomach as he sits on the edge of the bed, suddenly painfully aware of his nakedness.  
“You should start packing up, bud,” he says, cursing himself for not paying attention to where his briefs landed last night. His skin shudders with the phantom memory of Cas’s fingers pushing them down and he feels like he might throw up for a second.

He’s so caught in the spiraling mess of sensory memories that he startles when Castiel’s hand lands warm on his arm.  
“Dean,” he says, head tilted to the side, eyes wide and bright, unguarded. It hurts to look at them, and yet Dean can’t tear his gaze away. Cas doesn’t say anything else, leaves his name floating in the air between them, like Dean is supposed to derive all the meaning just from the single word. It infuriates him.  
“This ain’t a honeymoon, sunshine,” he spits out, and he hates the way his voice goes cutting and cold. He keeps his eyes on Castiel out of spite, and immediately wishes he hadn’t.  
Cas’s face does that thing where he doesn’t deliberately move a muscle and yet his whole expression changes.  
Dean is so close he can pinpoint the exact moment when his words hit, and then the next, when they cut.  
“Dean,” he repeats, and it sounds broken now, sad, maybe angry, and Dean just wants the warmth back, wants the sun back. “I thought we-” Cas says, eyes still planted on him, equal parts hopeful and hurt.  
“You thought what? That things would be different? We’d hold hands and skip into the sunset?” he growls, his voice growing louder as his resolve grows weaker.  
Cas’s face hardens, a huff of breath tumbles angry of his nose as he lets go of Dean’s arm, his hand falling limp on the sheet.

“How long?” Castiel asks, catching Dean by complete surprise  
“How long what?” he replies, trying to keep the cutting edge of his words sharp enough to defend himself.  
“How long do we have to pretend this means nothing, Dean? Because, frankly, I’m getting tired,” Castiel says, eyes digging to Dean’s, relentless, challenging and unafraid.  
Dean can almost hear the thud of his stomach dropping to his feet, landing on the ground in a messy heap. He feels sick and stupid and doesn’t know how to defend himself against something that is not an attack.  
The A/C clicks and shudders three times before Dean’s throat can remember how to form words. He passes a hand on his face, heavy, like closing his eyes will be enough to make it all disappear and leave Cas, only Cas, close and warm and his.  
When he finds his voice again, he speaks to the peeling wallpaper.  
“Way I see it, no point in talking about something that’s not real,” he grits out, and the words are barely past his lips when he wishes he could stuff them right back into his own mouth.  
“I see,” Cas says, bitter and empty.  
Dean wants to let it all crumble and crawl back to him.  
He fists his hands on the sheet instead and he doesn’t move.  
He swallows a breath that’s like sawdust in his lungs as he speaks again. “Look. We just had to get it out of our systems, okay? Now we have. And it was-” - _everything, everything I’ve always wanted and never taken_ \- “-fun,” he says. “Time to get back to reality.”  
The words burn like bile, like vomit, rancid and bitter as they spill out of Dean’s mouth and into the empty space between them.

The bed creaks and he’s on his feet, and he’s not sure how he got there. But his body is moving and Cas isn’t saying anything, and there’s a pressure on his back where his eyes must be boring into. Dean doesn’t turn around.  
It’s better this way, he tells himself; now it’s out of his system, there’s no point in wondering about it. His skin knows what Cas’s hands feel like, his lips know hot his breath gets when he’s pushing deep into Dean’s body.  
He knows what it’s like to be taken, and had, and kept, and that’s going to be enough for him.  
It has to.  
If there’s one thing Dean Winchester is good at, it’s making do with what he’s got.

He makes himself turn around, away from Cas, away from the salty smell of his skin and the tight tangle of his arms. The shower is as a grimy and cold as it was the night before when he stuffs himself in it. Showers away Cas’s sweat where it clings to his body, washes any phantom touch he could trace back on his skin.

When he gets back to the room, he finds it silent and empty, a nest of messy blankets the only thing crowding the bed. He sits down and he can only spend so long telling himself that Cas is on a coffee run, before late morning turns into early afternoon and he has to admit he’s gone.  
It hurts in a dull and hazy way, this pain, this ache for the man who was almost his, but not really, not quite.  
A summer thunderstorm swells up in the air and he can hear the water dropping fat on the window, the sound soothing and hypnotic on his brain.  
He wonders idly if Cas has an umbrella, if he has packed that stupid dusty trench coat of his, or if he’s standing in the pouring rain, hair sticking to his face, face mournful, like the dumb asshole he is. He wants to stand up and go find him, take him out of the rain, and kiss the storm right off his lips.  
Instead he sits there, on a bed that smells like Cas, - _like Cas with him_ -, half dressed, staring at the wall, breathing, sipping on a beer that has been laying around since last night and it’s too flat and too warm.

Then suddenly there’s the annoying sound of his phone ringing bursting through the brooding bubble of his thoughts. He’s picking up the call before he can really school his thoughts into a coherent frame.  
“He’s at the greyhound station on the north side of the city,” Sam says in lieu of a greeting.  
“Huh?” he replies, stupidly.  
“Why is he at the greyhound station, Dean,” Sam asks, annoyance seeping through every word, and it throws Dean off so much he has to gasp for air a few times before he can answer.  
“I ain't no babysitter Sam. He's a grown ass man, he can be wherever he wants,” he stammers and it sounds awkward to his own ears. “Wait. How do you-”  
“GPS, Dean,” Sam grumbles like the mere question is personally offending him. “I’ve been keeping an eye, just in case. You do realize you never actually called me back to let me know about that nest, right? I was trying to give you guys some space, work stuff out, but still, I was worried,”  
Sam leaves a pause for him to reply but Dean doesn’t. Lets the silence settle over the speaker, his head fogging a little with the knowledge that his own brother is trying to push him towards Cas, like it’s the right thing to do, the obvious one. He doesn’t know whether to be irritated or grateful.  
“Dean,” Sam’s voice huffs through the speaker “Look. It's none of my business, but you guys should really figure this out,”  
“Nothing here to figure out Sammy,” he replies automatically.  
“Sure, Dean. But-”  
“I don't wanna talk about it okay? There's nothing you, or anyone, can do about it, no point in wasting breath on this, man,” he grunts and is regarded with a long, suffering sigh from the other end of the line.  
“Just. Go talk to him, okay?” Sam starts again, like a dog with a damn bone “Come on, you know the guy gets queasy on buses-”  
Irritation wins, and just like that, Dean is cutting the call and chucking the phone away; it bounces on the mattress twice before it falls flat onto the carpet.

He breathes in deep, a tasteless, stale thing that makes him yearn for the leather of the car, and he walks around the bed to pick up the phone.  
He brushes his thumb over it, considers calling Castiel, telling him he’s being ridiculous, telling him to come back, ‘cause it’s pouring, and the bus must smell like damp shit, and why can’t he just stay with Dean and stop disappearing on him for fucking once.  
His fingers are clutched too tightly around the phone when he shoves it back into his pocket and decides that’s a face-to-face kind of argument.

The canvas bag stares at him where it lays at the foot of the bed, crumpled shirts and jeans and nothing of real value. It’s easy to tell himself he’s packing so fast because it’s getting late and he should check out before he’s double charged.  
There’s a red flannel shirt he can’t find anywhere, but it doesn’t matter. Because Cas is probably laying uncomfortably on a musty bus station bench, thinking Dean doesn’t want him, and Dean may not know what to do with this thing between the two them, but he knows he doesn’t want it to end like this.

When he finally pelts out of the Motel’s parking lot and hits the road there’s heavy traffic everywhere, slowing him down to the point of extreme frustration. The roads are flooding and the cars are going at a snail’s pace; Dean frets where he sits, knuckles white where he grips the steering wheel, cursing Texas and its drivers and its shitty draining system and the rain itself.  
He thinks about calling Cas again, making sure he doesn’t actually board a bus to nowhere, where Dean can’t get to him. Then he remembers that he doesn’t really know what to say to him, doesn’t have a reason to offer as to why exactly he should stay with Dean when he doesn’t even know where to begin untangling the mess they’ve made. So he’s just gonna drive, snail pace and flooding and all, and hope the weather is deemed too dangerous for the bus to depart.

It’s still raining, pouring, the air heavy and wet and hot, when he finally pulls into the grim parking lot of the Greyhound station.  
He walks in, boots squelching on the linoleum, until he sees Cas, shoulders hunched, hands curled around his bag, trying not to make eye contact with a woman who's attempting to sell him lighters. Stupidly, the first thing Dean notices is that he now knows where his red flannel went, because Cas is wearing it over his t-shirt, picks at the hem of it in a repetitive motion that looks soothing. His hair sticks to his forehead and he looks every bit as damp and miserable as Dean was picturing him. He’s still a thing of beauty.  
There’s a clench in Dean’s throat but he swallows around it.

“Running away, Cas? Seriously man?” he says, marching toward him, and it comes out angry, and it’s not what he wants to say at all, but it’s all he’s got right now.  
Cas startles, flinches like he’s been physically punched in the stomach, and lowers his eyes.  
The curving slope of his shoulders doesn’t suit him, it sits awkwardly and stiff on his spine.  
“Dean. I-” he starts, and it sounds deflated, mournful “I can’t do this anymore” his voice is small, but it echoes loudly in Dean’s ears anyways.  
“Cas, what-” he begins, anger deflating, but he doesn’t really know where to end.  
“You said it last night, some people don't know what's best for them. I thought, maybe, I knew what you needed better than you did, Dean, but- I was wrong. I should not have been so presumptuous and I’m- I’m so sorry,” he says and it sounds like he’s pulling teeth, like his stomach clenches the same way Dean’s does when he says whatever happened between them was a mistake, something bad, something to apologize for.  
“My judgement, it was impaired. I made a mistake. Just because I want something doesn't mean I get to have it. You showed me that and I should have listened,” Cas continues, and he’s looking at Dean now but it’s dull and meek and makes Dean ache in all the wrong ways.

“And what is it, huh? What is it that you want Cas?” Dean forces himself to ask, voice shaking more than he’d like to admit.  
Cas looks him straight in the eye, takes a deep breath and the blue in his eyes looks like it’s about to spill over and trickle down his cheeks.

“I- honestly, Dean? I want everything. You.” There’s a brief pause, where Cas takes a breath, and it feels as if he’s stealing the air right out of Dean’s lungs. “I want- so much. So strongly. Human emotions, they are- they're so intense that sometimes I think I'm just not built for them,” He says, shrugging in a humorless and bleak way. He inhales through his nose, his chest puffing out a little, shoulders rolling back, like he’s steeling himself for battle. His eyes find Dean’s when he speaks again.  
“But I think we both know at this point, that I'll just take whatever it is that you want to give. And if you decide that you have nothing to give, then I'll remove myself from the picture -if you’ll let me,” Cas concludes, eyes falling back onto the muddy floor.  
Dean’s stomach lurches out of his mouth.

There’s no conscious decision to kiss him right then. It just happens.  
One moment Dean’s about to reply and the next his lips are on Cas’s, dry and warm and a little chapped, and just as sweet as Dean remembers them.  
He kisses him, firm and warm, in a bus station that smells like piss and exhaust and musty carpet, and it’s so good, so right, he can’t find it in himself to care.

“Don’t go, Cas. Just-” he pauses, swallows down a clump of fear at the idea of Castiel really leaving him, for good “-stay” he says, fingers trembling a little where they cup Cas’s scratchy cheek, foreheads resting together.  
“You can't just- Get up and leave. You can’t take the choice from me, man. That's not how this works,” he says in the small space between their lips. Whispers it like a secret, voice raw.  
“This?” There’s trepidation shaking the foundation of Cas’s words and Dean can’t stand it.  
“This. Us. Come on, don’t make me say it Cas. You know what I mean.”  
“Maybe I don’t. Sometimes I think I do, but then I get it all wrong all over again. I thought I had it figured out, finally, but then, this morning you- you said it wasn’t real,” Cas says, his voice like gravel, as he pushes away from Dean. “It was real to me,” he whispers, and he sounds naked, broken.  
The space between them feels cold, it feels wrong, it aches like a living thing.

“Fuck, Cas. I’m- Fuck-” Dean blabbers, has to press a hand over his face just to hold himself together. Cas is still inching away from him on the bench and Dean feels desperation clawing at his chest; he needs to fix it, needs to bring him back, close, where it feels right.  
Because he’s fine with all the things he’s had to leave behind through the years, he is. But he can’t let Cas be one of them, not when he’s so close and so warm, and he fits within the borders of Dean’s life so perfectly that everything else is off balance if he’s not there.  
“It was real, alright?” he blurts out, breathless. It feels heavy on his tongue, hard to push out, but it’s not enough. Cas is still not looking at him, body rigid and too far away.  
“I fuck things up, Cas, that’s what I do. You knew that already. What else do you want me to say?” Dean pushes on, he has to.  
“The truth? Not the self deprecating bullshit, the actual truth. I just can’t- I need to know what you want. I need you to say it, Dean. Please.” Cas looks at him, eyes wide and wet, reverent; like Dean is about to reveal the fate of the Universe, like it all begins and ends with him.  
There’s a hole in his chest, where the words are buried, and Dean has to claw and dig and scratch, hands bloody and torn, before they finally get to his lips.  
His voice is raw when he speaks again.  
“I don’t want you to go, alright? Ever. I just want- I need you to stay. Stay and then; then I dunno. Can’t think that far, I’ve got no clue, no plan. But just- hang around? Lemme figure it out? Please.” He rasps out, covers Cas’s clammy hand where it lays on the bench, because there’s a cold void howling inside him and he can’t stand it anymore.  
“I just- I can’t do this without you, Cas. None of it. I need you to be here, with me. So, just- don’t leave. At least not- Not because you think I don’t want this, whatever this is. Cause I do. I want it- you”

It’s Cas who kisses him then, knocks their noses together, off balance and wet and deeper than would be considered polite in public. There’s a second when Dean pictures the stares of every poor soul in the swampy station focusing on the two of them. Then Cas is sweeping his tongue against his, and the only thing Dean can think about is that he can almost taste the relief bubbling bright in his mouth.  
Cas’s hands stay fisted on his shirt when he finally detaches, face flushed and eyes so blue and so deep that Dean can see himself skipping stones in them.  
“‘Want you too” Cas says, like he’s been waiting to say it for a million years, and maybe he has.  
Dean’s chest feels tight and cracked open at the same time.  
“Guess you’re staying, then?” he asks into the damp space between their mouths, grinning around the lump in his throat and the prickling of emotion between his eyes.  
Cas’s eyes drop to his lips where they must be swollen and wet.  
“I’m amenable, yes.” Cas replies, smiling small “Your car is definitely more comfortable than the bus. And I always get-”  
“Queasy on buses? Yeah man, I know.” He smiles, enjoys the way Cas’s eyes lit up a little at his words. “Come on, let’s get out of this dump” he says, lets himself grab Cas’s hand as they walk out, and the weight is all new, and it feels just right.

He bolts through the parking lot towards the Impala, dragging Castiel with him.  
“You know, it’s actually scientifically proven that you get less wet if you simply walk at a brisk pace, rather than running.” Castiel pants once they’re back inside the dry car, eyebrows knotting grumpily on his forehead. Dean kisses the frown right off his face, simply because he has decided that he can. And it’s exhilarating.  
Cas looks a little dumbfounded but he doesn’t argue. Dean counts it as a win.  
“So, where’s this lake of yours?” he asks him, turning the car on and shifting into gear. He turns just in time to see Cas smile, a small and bashful thing that makes the thunderstorm quieten inside him.

The lake turns out to be further away than Dean is comfortable driving on an empty stomach. So they pull into a small barbecue place that looks old and worn and claims you don’t need teeth to eat their beef. It makes Dean chuckle and Cas frown in confusion; until he actually tries the brisket and moans a little around the plastic fork.  
It stops raining just as they’re finishing up their plates, feet tangled beneath the tiny wooden table. Cas turns his head to the sun once it breeches the clouds, eyes closed and the shadow of a smile on his lips. There’s soft light pooling over his damp hair like a halo, like he’s being blessed with Heaven’s grace all over again, and Dean almost can’t believe he gets to be a witness to it.  
They both smell like smoke and rain and summer when they get back into the car and Dean’s stomach coils with longing; for this to never end, for him to never forget. He wishes he could bottle it all up and keep it somewhere deep and safe inside his soul.

The Impala rumbles and purrs as he speeds through the interstate, leaving the city behind, windows rolled all the way down to let the smell of wet grass in, music seeping slow through the speakers.  
Sometime during the drive, Cas falls asleep, tiny, low snores rolling down his lips. Dean looks at him, his mismatched form crumpled up on the seat. Dean’s thickest flannel pulled over his chest because he gets cold when he's really tired, even when it's 100 degrees out, and then those dorky shorts that ride up his strong thighs, leave the knots of his knees exposed.  
His cheeks are puffy and red with sunburn, his hair a wild untameable mess, and he’s drooling a little on his own shoulder.  
And all Dean wants to do is scoop him up, hold him close, and breathe him in, sweaty and dusty and sweet, until they both fall asleep.  
He drives on, pictures himself stretching out towards him and folding their bodies together, Cas’s hands reaching out inside the hole in his chest, big and tender, making him whole. Until it doesn’t hurt anymore; until their bodies together are the only thing that makes sense. At last.

It’s late evening when they finally reach their destination. Castiel wakes up with a startle when Dean has to break suddenly to avoid running over a group of deers crossing the road in big, swooping, jumps.  
He rolls on slowly up the hill then, mindful of the animals watching his car with lazy curiosity from the side of the dirt road.  
They park when they reach the top, and Dean watches as Cas climbs out of the car and walks carefully towards the animals, hand holding out a piece of Chex Mix he found in the glovebox. He smiles when a small deer lets him get close, sniffs at the offered food, lets him pet its head for a second.  
Dean snaps a picture, sends it to Sam, makes a joke about Disney princesses that’s too corny even for him, but he can’t find it in himself to care. Not when Castiel smiles so big his eyes crinkle at the corner, not when the air is clean and light the way it only gets after a thunderstorm and the sun is inching its way into the water.  
There’s a big dam on the side of the lake and it only takes a minute and light kiss to convince Cas to abandon the deer and climb onto it. Then it's just them, the water and the sun.

The sky is like the belly of a beast that's been slayed, a raw, bleeding cut that trickles slowly through the horizon, seeping through the clouds, dripping thick into the lake. The water ripples around it, shimmers with the impression of fire. Orange and crimson and pink and purple.  
It's magnificent and it makes Dean feel small, insignificant in a way that feels powerful, not demeaning. Like he could do anything and nobody would care, nobody would take notice.  
Like he's free.

Sunset has already turned to dusk in Castiel's eyes, an indigo spread, starless and deep, liquid. Dean feels unworthy to look at him, even with Cas like this, sweaty and rumpled and human.  
He still looks holy to him.  
Dean settles down behind him, lets an arm fall heavy on his waist, tucks his nose in the curve of Cas’s neck, where it smells like summer and sweat, and home.  
Cas sighs and sags a little against him, warm and sunkissed and heavy on his chest.  
And the sky is so big and indifferent, and they’re so small and irrelevant, and Dean feels a breeze in lungs like freedom.

If there’s a rule that says he shouldn’t have this, Dean can’t remember it.  
He thinks of his dusty shelf back at the bunker, pictures the negative spaces, and he suddenly doesn’t see regret, but potential.  
Little empty nooks and crannies to hold Cas’s books, his needy plants.  
He kisses the nape of his neck, warm and dry, and it tastes like dawn on his lips.  
Just this one time, he thinks, he's gonna let himself have this.

“Gonna keep you” he whispers against Castiel’s skin, and the breeze carries it away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta say, I never expected I would write over 15k of Destiel, and that people would find it and like it.  
> This has been an awesome experiment, both in fandom and in writing and I'm so so grateful for all the support I have received! I'm genuinely a little sad I'm leaving *these* Dean and Cas, but it's a series, so who knows. =)
> 
> I'll sound like the needy author I am (again), but really, kudos and comments not only make my day, but they are a great great encouragement to write, and I'd truly love to hear what you guys think about this, cause it wasn't easy to write! <3  
> You can [find me on Tumblr right here](https://flurryflair.tumblr.com/), feel free to come yell at me!  
> Oh! If you do like my writing, keep an eye out (subscribe?), there's gonna be a Middle-Aged!Destiel long-fic in the works very soon ;)
> 
> Hook'em!

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT 05/2019: I'm not dead, I'm writing a destiel long fic and it's taking a long time (cause I'm a very slow writer), but it'll get there! I will also be adding a third part to this series at some point so if you're interested in reading any more stuff stay tuned! And thanks for being patient! I appreciate every comment and every kudos 💙💙💙
> 
> \-----
> 
> So here we are, posting the sequel I never thought I'd actually write. And posting it in chapters too cause it's that long.  
> This is the longest thing I've written in years and it was an intense (and stressful) experience, so I really really hope someone out there will get to read it and enjoy it.  
> If you have *any* opinions about this work, good or bad, PLEASE do let me know, I am trying to push my writing and I need all the help I can get!!  
> I will be here, casually reloading the page every 10 minutes and longing for validation in the meantime ;)


End file.
